Chapter Five
CHARLOTTE
The moment Declan steps into the training room, I know something’s off.
He doesn’t say good morning. Doesn’t glance my way. Doesn’t even grumble a half-hearted complaint about the resistance bands he hates. Just limps in, brace locked tight, jaw even tighter, and sits on the table without a word.
I close the folder in my lap and stand, smoothing my hand over my thigh. “Morning,” I offer, keeping my tone light. “Brace on already? That’s dedication. I’m impressed.”
He exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh. Not quite anything. “Didn’t feel like dealing with it here.”
I nod, but his posture says more than his voice does. He’s usually composed. Guarded, sure. But today it’s different. His stillness isn’t control—it’s tension. His left hand flexes against his thigh like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
I set the resistance ladder beside the table and gesture to the edge. “We’ll start light. Lateral step-ups. Just until I can see how your quad’s holding up after yesterday’s work.”
He slides off the table slowly, his movements jerky. Silent. No protest when I adjust the height. No snide comment about the mini hurdles or band colors. That’s when I know for sure—something’s wrong.
He moves through the first few reps like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts. It’s not his form I’m watching, not really. It’s the way his eyes stay fixed on a spot past my shoulder. Like if he doesn’t look at me, I won’t notice how distracted he is.
But I do.
“Declan,” I say quietly, waiting until he pauses. “You doing okay today?”
He shrugs. It’s the kind of non-answer people give when they’re not ready to talk but also don’t want to lie. His gaze drops to the floor, and for a second, I think that’s all I’ll get.
“Didn’t sleep much,” he mutters finally. “It’s fine.”
I tilt my head slightly, watching him. “Is it your knee?”
“No.”
The word is clipped. Definitive. I nod again and crouch beside him to adjust the band tension, giving him space while still staying close. He doesn’t flinch when I brush his ankle to correct his foot alignment, but he doesn’t meet my eyes either.
“It’s fine,” he repeats, like saying it again will make it true.
I don’t push. Not yet. Whatever it is, he’s not ready to share it—and I’ve worked with enough athletes to know that prying too soon just makes them pull away harder. Especially ones like Declan, who carry their pain like armor.
Still, as he moves into the next set, slower now, I can’t ignore the shift in the room. It’s quiet, heavy with something unspoken.
And I have a feeling it has nothing to do with his knee.
We move through most of the session in silence. No sarcastic comments. No drawn-out sighs or fake protests about protocol. Just reps, braces, adjustments, and the kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful—just thick.
By the time we switch to seated extensions, I know I’m not imagining it. He’s usually gruff, sure. But never this shut down.
“Okay, foot flexed,” I say gently, kneeling beside him as I guide his leg into position. “We’ll go for eight—just slow and steady.”
He nods, still not looking at me. His quad tenses, the brace clicks slightly as he starts the first rep. But his focus drifts somewhere else.
“I hate to see Sophie hurting,” he mutters so quietly I barely catch it.
My heart jumps, my mind filling with questions, but I force myself not to interrupt. I let him continue when he’s ready.
He doesn’t seem to notice he said it out loud. Just keeps his eyes fixed ahead. A long beat stretches before he exhales.
“Her mom was supposed to visit this weekend,” he adds. “Said she’d take Sophie shopping. Maybe lunch. Sophie tries to hide it, but she gets excited every time she thinks she’ll hang out with her.”
I stay quiet. My hands are still on his brace, fingers lightly resting over the hinge. His voice is even, but something about it makes my chest go tight. Not the words—those are calm. Controlled. It’s the undertow beneath them that hits.
“She canceled.” His voice is flat, detached. “Texted Sophie yesterday. Sophie said it’s fine. Said she forgot about it anyway.”
He looks down for the first time, jaw flexing once.
“She didn’t,” he says, softer now. Like admitting it out loud costs him something.
I don’t say anything, just stay crouched beside him. He’s quiet for a long beat, then the words come low and almost surprised—like he’s hearing himself say them.
“Vanessa and I… it was never steady,” he says finally. “We were kids who thought we had it figured out. She got pregnant, and I told myself marrying her was the right thing. That I could make it work if I just tried hard enough.”
His mouth pulls tight, a faint shake of his head. “Turns out that’s not the same thing as being happy. Or ready.”
He exhales, almost laughs, but it’s quiet. “Anyway. That was a lifetime ago.”
He flexes his knee again, as if the motion gives him something to do with his hands. “Sophie’s the only part of it that ever made sense.”
It’s the most he’s said to me about anything personal. And I know this isn’t about venting. I get the feeling he’s not someone who unloads to feel better. This is just… leaking out.
I stay still, the air between us heavy with things unsaid. For a second, I see it—the weight of doing what he thought was right, even when it cost him.
I stay crouched beside him, the band still looped around his ankle, one hand steady on the brace. “That’s hard,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”
He nods once, like he accepts it, but doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.
We do the next set in silence. But it’s different now. Not lighter, not exactly—but less sharp around the edges. Like letting it out gave him a little more room to breathe.
And when I rise to adjust the timer, I don’t miss the way he exhales, like he’s been holding that in for hours.
Declan finishes his cooldown without complaint. No eye rolls. No cracks about overachieving medical staff. He gives me a quiet nod as he limps out. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but his shoulders don’t seem quite so tense.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I exhale slowly, then start wiping down the table.
A little later, Mark Dalton ducks into the room, tugging at the tape on his shoulder. I recognize him from the roster I memorized before day one—veteran defenseman, more than a decade with the Ice Foxes.
“Mind giving me a quick re-wrap?” he asks, peeling the edge loose. His tone is casual, like this is nothing new for him.
“Sure,” I say, reaching for the fresh roll.
He doesn’t flinch or hover, just lets me work. When I’m done, he flexes once and gives me an easy smile. “Perfect. Thanks, Charlotte.”
Simple. Professional. But the acknowledgment lands.
My phone buzzes from inside my duffel. I almost ignore it, but the screen lights up with a text from David.
Hey—Erin’s craving grilled food and the forecast looks like it should cooperate. Backyard BBQ on Sunday if you’re free?
I smile, thumb hovering over the screen.
Yeah, I’m in. Look forward to getting to know my niece better. Thanks for the invite.
I'm halfway through logging notes into the system when Dan pokes his head in from the hallway.
“Hey, Charlotte. Got a minute?”
I glance at the clock. “Of course. What’s going on?”
“Torres, rookie winger, tweaked his quad during practice,” Dan says. “Nothing alarming, but he’s milking it. Thinks chirping me counts as pain management. Mind giving it a look?”
I nod, already standing.
I follow him down the hallway to the secondary treatment room. Torres is still in most of his gear, minus skates, perched on the table with his helmet in his lap. He’s mid-story, grinning at one of the trainers.
“Reinforcements,” he says when he spots me. “About time. Dan was threatening to bring out the foam roller of doom.”
I smile as I pull on gloves. “Tell me what happened.”
“I saved the entire top line from a catastrophic collision,” he deadpans. “With my thigh. At full speed.”
“Heroic,” I murmur, already kneeling beside him. “Tell me exactly where it hurts.”
He points to a spot just above the knee, wincing slightly as I press around it. The tissue feels inflamed, but there’s no heat or bruising yet. Likely mild. Maybe a deep contusion at worst.
“You’ll live,” I say after a beat.
Torres grins. “I knew you’d be honest with me.”
“Someone has to be,” I reply, straightening. “You’ve got a maintenance schedule now. We’ll ice and mobilize today, then recheck range in the morning.”
I step into the supply room across the hall to grab more tape—one of the many places I’m still memorizing after only three days here.
As I step into the hallway, I catch a few voices drifting around the corner—from the direction of the players’ lounge.
“Not the same without Cap out there.”
“He barely has to say anything. Just makes you want to play harder.”
“Yeah. You feel it. Without him around, it’s like—”
“Like the room’s just waiting on him.”
There’s a quiet laugh.
“Bet he’s driving the trainers nuts though.”
“Guaranteed.”
More laughter. A door creaks. The moment shifts.
I keep walking—steady, unhurried, pretending I didn’t hear anything. But the words linger. I’d already started to see past the gruff exterior.
Now I wonder how much more I haven’t seen.
I don’t realize how tired I am until I’m finally home, standing in the kitchen with a mug of tea I haven’t taken a single sip from.
The house is still. Quiet. But my thoughts are anything but.
Three days ago, Declan Tremayne barely looked at me.
Today, he was different.
The way he talked about Sophie, it caught me off guard. Not because he said a lot. But for someone who guards every expression like it might cost him something, even a few quiet truths felt... loud.
I rest my hip against the counter, staring at nothing.
Hearing how much he loves his daughter—feeling it when he said her name—that was new.
For the first time, I didn’t just see the captain, or the injury, or the impossible expectations wrapped around both.
I saw someone trying. Struggling, maybe. But not checked out. Not cold. Not really.
Just… careful.
And maybe that's fair.
He doesn't know me anymore.
But today felt like the first step toward something more than just protocol.
I wrap my hands tighter around the mug.
Just a shift.
A start.
A reminder that behind all that ice and steel, there’s still a heartbeat.